TROUBLE
By Interstitial
8. TROUBLE
Karsten Talv seemed inordinately pleased with himself.
“Such great work! Oh, we could do so much together. Think about it! Aside from all else, we still need to find your sister, do we not? And we make a good team, don’t we, you and me and Takeshi and the thing in your head?”
We stood there for a moment, back there in his ridiculous apartment again, looking out at the building growing across the river. Even at distance, I could see its larger tendrils wafting in the wind.
“Talv, I don’t know what more you want from me,” was all I could think of to say. “Thank you for your help, but we’ve shut the place down now. No more crappy mass market sex drones offending your delicate artistic sensibilities, right?” He nodded encouragingly at that.
“At least for the time being. Turing would be appalled, of course. Gödel too. It is, objectively speaking, appalling. But such purposes, such ideas, have a habit of re-emerging. Besides, who knows who’s ultimately behind it? Takeshi’s looking, but nothing so far.”
“Well, I have my concerns too. Just look at me,” I said, indicating my augmented body. “I still look like I’m—”
“—all woman,” he interrupted, raising one eyebrow for emphasis, “and more.”
“Yes, fine, all woman, half bio-engineered sex toy, half remote-controlled killing machine. And speaking of sex toys, I still get the cravings for...”
“So much the better,” he grinned. “It’s all part of a great package. Love the hair, by the way. Very modern. Very you. With just a little makeover you could be truly amazing.”
I’d cropped my hair back to razor-cut black again. And I’d learned a lot about the thing in my head, thanks to Talv and Takeshi.
“Thanks, Talv. But as for ‘makeovers’, I’ve seen some of your other work, remember?”
“It isn’t all about sex,” he said seriously. “It’s about transformation; the transformation of the mundane to the wonderful. Of weakness to power. And doesn’t that apply just as well to humans as it does to anything else? Anyway. Enough small talk. I’ve got something to show you.”
He led me to a black-curtained wall; with a flourish he tugged on a little cord and the drapes swished back.
“A gallery of you,” he said. “A refreshing new image.”
The first picture was me, all skin tight shiny black, cropped dark hair and kohl-rimmed eyes, crouching on a rooftop, looking down fiercely into a suitably dystopian street scene. A giant full moon hung overhead, in the sketch, the sort that only exists in an artist’s mind. I seemed poised, catlike, about to jump down into the melee below. I appeared to be wearing some kind of—what?—utility belt?
I glanced at Talv. He seemed even more inordinately pleased with himself, if such a thing were possible.
The second picture showed me in full on fight-mode, my face set in grim concentration, whirling legs and arms everywhere, fists and feet a blur, while many and various assumed wrong-doers fell around me spraying stylised blood. Takeshi’s little avatar was represented in a screen in the corner of the picture, programmes scrolling, green on black.
Takeshi’s avatar snorted. Looks nothing like me.
The third picture was from a low angle: it showed me standing, towering huge and statuesque, legs apart, over a vanquished cowering villain. I was brandishing a whip, seemingly about to strike fierce vengeance. The quaking man on the ground had his hands raised in desperate supplication or defence. He looked a little like Collinson.
“A whip, Talv? Really?”
“The power of images. A trademark! Think of the merchandising. And it has other purposes, too, just as much fun…”
I couldn’t help grinning. “Superslut, then? Did you by any chance read a lot of comic books when you were a teenager?”
“Of course,” he said seriously. “Like all perfectly normal young men. But ‘Superslut’? Please, give me some credit. Look.”
The gallery was labelled ‘TROUBLE’ in big black late-twentieth-century-looking bold-type, and under that was a slogan: TROUBLE IS AS TROUBLE DOES.
Takeshi giggled in my head.
See? Unintended consequences. #emergent. They had no idea what they were making, when they put that thing in your head. No idea of the potential. Making servants and sex dolls? Really, with all that wonderful technology, is that the best they could think of? Oh, they thought they were thinking big, but we think bigger, here. And now… as Mister Talv says: just think of all the things we could do...
“And what a great brand name. ‘Trouble’! So campaignable! ‘If you go looking for trouble, Trouble will come’. ‘Trouble is my middle name. In fact, it’s my only name’… Go on, say it. Bet you can think of plenty more…”
As he chattered enthusiastically on, I wandered further down the gallery. I had to grudgingly admire the way he’d captured the sense of movement, the sense of implacable speed and unstoppable force. The thing in my head tingled fleetingly, the heavy flywheels of Takeshi’s routines spinning, always there, always ready to be unleashed, in the service of... what?
Trouble.
Karsten Talv had finally shut up and was looking at me expectantly. “So what do you say?”
I sighed. “I’ve got sad news for you, Talv. The world is not a game. And superhumans don’t exist.”
He just grinned at me, imperturbable as ever.
“Are you absolutely sure about that, Jessica Crane?”